


Arts and Crafts

by Tiriel_35 (Fritiriel)



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Artistic!Frodo, Flipbooks, Homemade hobbit pornography, M/M, Pre-Quest, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:31:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fritiriel/pseuds/Tiriel_35
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every hobbit lad should have a nice quiet hobby. No, <i>another</i> nice quiet hobby…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arts and Crafts

**Author's Note:**

> May require slightly more in the way of willing suspension of disbelief; ages more movie than book

‘Quick and quiet!’ Frodo hissed. ‘Bilbo might come back early, and catch us, but I think not yet awhile.’ It was unlikely, he knew, and it wouldn’t really matter if he did come back _right_ now. Later, though might be very much more awkward, if—but he couldn’t think of that, not yet… He sent up a fervent plea that Bilbo’s return might be as long delayed as possible, for just supposing…

Sam stifled his question—the warning was answer enough; whatever Mr Frodo would be about, was to be their secret, which sent a delicious shiver down Sam’s spine. Like as not, though, it was just to see some exciting new book of Mr Bilbo’s, here in the study—but why would Mr Frodo be wanting to keep quiet over that? Mr Bilbo had never made no objection to Sam handling any of his books, so long as his hands were clean. Whichever way, it was unlikely to be the _exciting_ kind of invitation of Sam’s constant dreaming. 

But he did wonder why Mr Frodo was so much on edge about whatever it was, for Sam had never seen him quite so nervous. He tried not to peep and spoil Mr Frodo’s surprise, waiting patiently by the desk as Frodo collected together several sheets of paper. 

‘I’ll need to borrow your knife, Sam, please—it’ll be quicker than scissors, as long as it’s sharp.’ 

Sam frowned. _No point having a pocket knife if it weren’t kept well-honed_ , he thought, as he handed it over; he was slightly hurt that Frodo could think he would be so careless. 

Frodo clicked it open and tested the edge with his thumb. ‘Drat! You could have said you keep it sharp enough to slice Lobelia’s charity, Sam!’ 

‘Needs to be so, for the pruning, Mr Frodo. I’m sorry, sir,’ Sam mumbled, deeply aware that the blood trickling down into Frodo’s palm was all his fault. ‘Here, I’ll—’ He stopped and blushed brightly. There was no way he was going to finish _that_ sentence, getting carried away as though Mr Frodo were one of his small nephews; ‘kiss it better’ was always a way to stop their tears when they were hurt. 

Frodo sucked his thumb, then licked up the trail of blood. The cut was deeper than he had thought; he fished a handkerchief from his pocket—awkwardly, for it was on the same side as the cut hand—and held it out. ‘Better wrap this around it for me, please, or I’ll be wasting even more of Bilbo’s precious paper.’ 

Sam concentrated on folding, wrapping and tying the makeshift bandage, and tried not to think of the possibility of Mr Bilbo’s wrath, of the softness of Frodo’s hand in his, or of the sudden determined direction of his shiver, renewed at sight of that rosy pink tongue and Frodo’s thumb disappearing into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing… Sam tied off hastily and stepped back. 

‘Now, where should we do it?’ Frodo’s mind returned with difficulty—Sam had been so close, so gentle, so caring—to the task in hand; of necessity, since Bilbo really _would_ be back from the village too soon if they didn’t get a move on. Already this was not proceeding quite as he had planned. 

‘I know—bring the smoothest of the split logs, Sam, and we can rest it on there.’ 

Sam laid the log on the floor between them, split side up, wedging it firmly with smaller ones, split side down, so it wouldn’t slip and perhaps cause Frodo to be cut again. Frodo tapped the sheets of paper by their edges; once satisfied they were properly lined up, he laid them on the wood and used a ruler and Sam’s knife to slice them, first in half lengthways, and then into strips, being careful to set them into numbered order. He had spent a long time on their content, and had dithered as to whether he was really ready for this, whether _Sam_ was ready. He didn’t need any more delay, or he might start having second thoughts. He gathered the pieces together carefully and settled them into place. ‘Could you pass that, Sam, please?’ He nodded toward the desk.

Silently, Sam reached for the strong metal clip and handed it to him; Frodo pushed the aligned strips neatly between its jaws. 

‘There!’ Frodo said; then he cursed under his breath, fluently and in dwarvish. (He actually had no idea what the words _meant_ , but they always felt so satisfyingly wicked to say—so much more releasing than ‘drat’. Bilbo used them only to relieve moments of considerable stress—most often in the wake of a Sackville-Baggins visit—and he forbade Frodo _ever_ to use them, so it stood to reason they must be fairly powerful imprecations.) 

Such expletives seemed necessary now, as he realised that, with his right hand thickly swathed in a blue (and intermittently red) spotted handkerchief whose ends perked up like rabbits’ ears from his thumb, he could not possibly flick the edges of the paper as they were meant to be flicked. 

He so wanted to show this to Sam, but now the time was at hand, he was no longer sure he _should_. Perhaps this little mishap should be taken as a hint that this might not be the good idea he had thought it? He had conceived it as a testing of the waters, as it were, but it probably was far too soon—far too blatant. A hope so fragile should not be hurried…

~~~

Frodo had known for years that such little flipbooks that could be made from piled slips of paper with a drawing on each one. It had been quite amazing to see the little figures move—and move so fast! As youngsters, he and his friends had put tiny stick hobbits through the gamut of walk, dance, run, trip and fall, perform unbelievably long jumps and astoundingly high ones (with back-flips) At the peak of the books’ popularity, there had even been several large tomes within the hallowed portals of Brandy Hall’s library, which had carried such embellishment upon their corners, for more pages gave more and better antics (there had also been several young hobbit bottoms which had tingled mightily to the resultant retribution). 

But until a recent gathering—also at Brandy Hall, though in a far less hallowed place, and of far from scholarly lads whose inventiveness with flipbooks far outstripped Frodo’s own or any he had seen—he had never thought to apply the principle to more _intimate_ forms of activity. 

Merry had invited his cousin to join the group, whose clandestine Highday meetings were held in one of the remoter cellars, where hilarity and high jinks were safe from adult eyes and ears. Frodo felt rather out of place, at first, being as much older than most of the lads as Merry was younger. Merry didn’t seem so young, though; he gave back joke for joke and showed Frodo a hitherto unsuspected talent for the telling of saucy stories, which must obviously have developed to full flower in the years since Frodo left to live at Bag End. The telling of such tales around the circle, to the accompaniment of a large jug of ale, had led to the bringing out of flipbooks with far less innocent pictures than Frodo had _ever_ envisaged. 

Every lad seemed to own at least a couple, and they varied according to maker, from the basic, barely delineated stick person to the truly accomplished: real drawings with details of dress and hair, and even expression on the tiny faces. The activities revealed also varied, though the more interesting ones were not produced until the jug had circulated several times. 

The first of them had been quite mild, but of the realistic kind—a pretty hobbitmaid whose skirts were whipped about by the wind to show equally pretty legs. The same artist had a nice eye for hobbitmaids as seen though bedroom windows, hobbitmaids undressing by the riverbank, damp hobbitmaids who bent revealingly to retrieve wayward nether garments… There could be no doubt that Besco Goodwin devoted a great deal of his time to observation before ever he recorded his findings. He had bartered his talents freely amongst his friends, it seemed, and there were many such little booklets passed around with the ale. 

The jug grew emptier, and the comments rowdier and naughtier, with the production of more salacious flipbooks; and if the quality of the pictures declined in some cases, the content became more intense. It was surprising just how much raw energy the flickering movement could give to the sketchiest of figures. Seen through a slight alcoholic haze, even the distinctly amateurish couplings could be… interesting to watch, as the participants thrashed and heaved to an explosive conclusion. 

There was one, complex in scope though rough in execution, which showed a lad on his bed, pleasuring himself as he envisioned cavorting with his sweetheart, in a bubble over his head. Naughtiest of all, perhaps, were the odd one or two which featured not a lad and his lass, but two lads together. Comments passed on these were at the same time far coarser and more guarded, and they were soon put away. Conversation became boastful then, as lads sought to prove their prowess with the lasses, for most of them preferred a lass, though Frodo thought there were one or two whose enthusiasm for the discussion was less than it might have been. 

In the aftermath of the impromptu party Frodo could not get those last few images from his mind. They had been crude, and the comments cruder, and he felt vaguely shamed that they should affect him so nearly; it had actually been slightly arousing to watch the stick lads flicker themselves to a climax. It was undeniable that he had imagined such things—had wished for them, quite fervently—but…

Not like that. Never like that. 

In his mind, such imaginings were commuted by love and tenderness into true beauty; for all of them featured himself and Samwise. Those pictures had made the lads seem no better than animals, rutting for fulfilment of physical demands only. That was not what Frodo saw, not what he wanted, when he pictured himself with Sam. 

Frodo knew all about physical demands, had known for years now. In his later teens, he had become quite adept at relieving both his own and those of a fair number of lasses. There had even been one extremely worrying time, when he and Godetia Ploughwright, who was far older than he and ought therefore to have known better, had feared they might shortly reap the most incontrovertible reward of such activity. Contemplation of this thankfully averted catastrophe had the effect of making him much more cautious, and set him back on his own resources, as it were, to a far greater extent. 

And soon enough, he began to feel that, although physical gratification might be extremely enjoyable, there had to be more to love than a mutual release of tension, no matter how shattering. None of his partners had given him more than that (though he freely admitted he had rendered like for like). Perhaps this need for a deeper bond was the result of his advancing age? He was almost of age after all, and ought to be thinking about settling on a nice lass with whom to share his life. The problem was that no lass he had ever… met had stirred more than the obvious in him, and once he became Bilbo’s heir, interest in Frodo Baggins suddenly seemed far more fiscal than fond. 

Indeed, by the time he moved to Bag End, Frodo had almost come to prefer his own resources, which was rather fortunate—initially, because there were few young people of his own age and social circle (not that Frodo would have minded who they _were_ , if there had been anyone at all with whom he could have found the bond he was seeking). Later, his self-sufficiency was to become a source of minimal comfort and his only means of relieving immense frustration. (A plentifully stocked memory had proved a blessing, to begin with, but as time went on he discovered that a well developed imagination was also useful tool, in more pursuits than one.) 

Festival frolics aside—when anyone could and did pair with anyone else, repercussions were completely deniable, and a change was, after all, as good as a rest—Frodo’s days at Bag End were spent being scholarly and abstemious, in writing, translating, drawing, and the making of maps. 

Scholarly and abstemious, that was, when he wasn’t wandering the Shire in search of adventure, or elves, with young Sam Gamgee tagging at his heels in hopes of a single glimpse at an elf. Their observations, disappointingly, never were of elves, though they shared a deep satisfaction at the sight of a hind with her newborn calf, scarce visible for the dappling of shadow beneath the trees; in a tumble of fox cubs yipping joyously through the dusk; for the cautious midnight company of badgers from the local sett, bumbling and nearsighted, come to snuffle out soaked raisins that Frodo would bring and scatter for them. 

He might go swimming in The Water, laughing and splashing rainbows at Sam as he paddled to and fro in the shallows, too worried to venture more deeply, but (as Frodo well knew) fully prepared to leap in and do his best should the young master get into difficulties. In vain had Frodo tried to point out that such a case would inevitably result in two hobbits in need of rescue, and wasn’t that incentive enough to learn to swim? Sam would only mumble that he would have to do his best as he was, or Mr Bilbo would never forgive him for letting his heir drown. 

When Bilbo realised with some dismay that, due to the domestic arrangements at Brandy Hall, Frodo had never learned more than the rudimentary principles of cooking, such lack was obviously not to be borne in the heir of so celebrated a connoisseur of table and cellar. He undertook to remedy the matter, but despite the best of intentions, his temper (hasty at the best of times) wore thin after the third ruined pan, and the task was delegated to Sam, whose mother had made sure her sons, as well as her daughters, were proficient in the kitchen. Younger though he might be, Sam possessed not only rather more patience than his master, but also an intuitive grasp of the exact moment—just as Frodo’s attention began to return from cabbages to the classics, potatoes to poetry, victuals to verse—at which an adroit reminder would bring him back to the present. Much practice under Sam’s tactful tutelage had ensured Frodo was now just about able to hold his own amongst the ‘plain but good’ cooks of the Shire, if not with his uncle’s mastery of the art. 

In return, Frodo had taken over Sam’s lessons, and once Sam was well able to read the Common Speech, Frodo decided he should have a grounding in Sindarin. Elvish could be fiendishly complicated to learn, he had found—the reading much easier than the writing—but somehow, teaching the basics of it to Sam deepened his own understanding and enjoyment. And Sam, of course, was pleased beyond measure to gain some experience of the language, if he had not yet succeeded in meeting an elf in the flesh. 

Bag End had always a steady stream of visitors, from the outlandish to the frankly boring, with whom Bilbo required also that Frodo must learn to deal. To be Master of the Hill, Frodo found, was not just a matter of managing land or keeping accounts with compound interest; it was as much the maintenance of the peace between disputing tenants, or coping with often garrulous and sometimes downright quarrelsome visitors and relations who had connections with the estate (and on occasion failing at same). Though Frodo gained much from observing Bilbo’s diplomatic skills, there were things here too, that he could learn from Sam, who had always to be deferential to visitors, his stance calm and unperturbed whether responding to the unfailing, though somewhat high-handed, courtesy of the many Brandybuck and Baggins relatives, or to the ignorantly dismissive rudeness of the Sackville-Bagginses, which set Frodo’s temper aflame on Sam’s behalf if not his own. 

Frodo had to admit his days were certainly full. His nights were far less so, though they usually involved a _little_ self expression. He sometimes wondered, vaguely, if this busy, solitary life was really what he wanted; if he ever would meet a lass who would stir more than the obvious in him, and in whom he might raise feelings which _were_ more fond than fiscal. It had begun to seem less and less likely. 

And then, out of nowhere, it had happened. 

One minute he was as contented as he thought he might ever have a right to be; the next, a bundle of repressed desires which could never be completely satisfied, no matter how skilled, how _determined_ his efforts. 

It occurred to him, afterwards, that he must have been walking around with his eyes shut for several years. Either that, or Samwise had grown up quite literally overnight. Of course, he had realised Sam was _growing_ , and was now of a size and strength to take over more and more of the garden work, as Gaffer grew older and less able, so Frodo must often be without his companion of old. He just hadn’t actually seen the obvious until it had sprung up in his face and knocked him sideways. 

It hadn’t happened in a wonderfully romantic haze of glorious sunshine, either, on a high hill with birds carolling and the entire world glittering in echo of his joy. Nor even under a cloak of silver moonlight, the stars themselves coming down to bless his choice. (It has to be said that it was not only the maiden aunts of the Shire who devoured the output of a certain publishing house which knew exactly how to cater to an unsatisfied longing for romance; though Frodo preferred to think of his interest as research into the reading preferences of hobbits in general.) 

No, it had been quite an ordinary day, with an ordinary sun and an ordinary, if enjoyable, picnic lunch with Bilbo, outside on the extremely prosaic (though well-tended) back lawn. Sam had joined them there, bringing his own pack-up, to which Bilbo insisted that he should add a share of their spread, and also help them out with the jug of ale, lest they sleep away the afternoon under the trees. 

Sam had simply lifted the jug, to pour three generous measures. And something – the gilding of the sun upon his face? The strong curve of his shoulder? The dusting of fine gold hair over the warm tan of his arm? The rumble of his voice, just saying, ‘There you go, Mr Bilbo, sir,’ but so much richer and deeper than Frodo remembered it? _Some_ thing had taken hold of Frodo’s insides and removed them completely, rendered them liquid fire and absolute want, then casually replaced them for him to cope with as best he might. 

He had managed to stumble to his room and collapsed onto the bed, telling Bilbo he must have caught too much sun. He had lain there, absolutely stunned, his entire body singing with want and a piercing awareness that the object of this sudden, overwhelming desire, was working away quietly just outside his window. Though the usual cheerful sounds were absent—whatever the task, Sam nearly always had a lay to sing or to hum—Frodo knew he was there in the rustle of leaves, the muffled scrape of some unseen tool, the occasional stifled starts of song, as Sam’s nature attempted to assert itself and was quickly suppressed lest he disturb the young master’s rest. But he was there, as always. 

In the gulf between one minute and the next, he had ripened from _Young Sam, the gardener’s lad who was my shadow and is my friend_ , into _Oh, Sam!_

Frodo realised then just how much he had taken Sam for granted for years, and it was only as he contemplated the probability that Sam would not of his own will choose him, that he knew this was far more than simple desire. His life at Bag End was threaded through with Sam, and Sam’s presence was an essential part of his contentment, his happiness here. Frodo knew also that there could never now be another, much less a lass, to satisfy this longing, this love. 

But although _he_ might have had a sudden revelation, Sam was still too young to be making any such momentous decision. So Frodo had waited. He had loved and longed and desperately desired, but he had waited. 

His skill in drawing was a comfort to him in the torment his life became. He made many covert studies of Sam from life, though it was a fact that the time spent in observation far outstripped the time he took to record every last detail (though not the time spent in later… appreciation of his subject.) 

A hot summer, with Sam working stripped to the waist, gave Frodo the opportunity to observe the play of light and shadow on the ripple of sweat-sheened power from Sam’s shoulders, the tauten and flex, as he lifted weight under which many a hobbit might have foundered. But Frodo loved as much the sudden delicacy of Sam’s sturdy fingers, as he settled tiny seedlings in their new quarters, or the softness of his smile when the feral cat who had moved in under the tool shed, brought out her four kittens, dropping them proudly one by one at his feet. 

Her purr was audible, though stuttering and uneven, as if she had not long since learned how to use it, for her young—or for Sam. And Sam’s voice was so low and tender, his hands so strong yet so carefully gentle, that Frodo had nearly given himself away, watching from a distance as Sam knelt, and the little tabby coiled and curvetted beneath his fingers, twisting sinuously this way and that, shamelessly begging Sam’s touch here, to fondle over her back, a tickle there, in a deft caress to her ears… 

A low and needy rasp pitched deep within Frodo’s throat; refusing to be smothered, it squeezed unwelcome through clenched lips to startle both cat and hobbit. She arched and spat before her kittens, coquettish dalliance abandoned for defence to the death if necessary. Sam was stock still—unsure, Frodo hoped, of what he had heard—as Frodo fled with a muttered apology, leaving Sam’s serene murmur to calm her agitation. 

His drawing captured Sam’s face lit with pleasure and gratitude at the little cat’s gift of her trust in him, and with the love he showed for all small things in need of care. Frodo thought it one of his best, and Bilbo agreed, when he saw it. Frodo did in fact draw many such innocent pictures featuring not only Sam but Bilbo himself, the garden, visitors or the countryside around. 

On none of them though, did he expend so much care as on his more revealing sketches of Sam, and he was very careful not to leave these where they might be found. Below the waist, he drew Sam pale and tempting, lavishing stroke after stroke of his pencil, on muscle and flesh, and the thatch of hair he somehow knew to be tinged with copper amid the gold; and any hobbit would have been pleased and flattered by the endowment that Frodo so lovingly enscribed. 

Though he felt his skills insufficient to do justice to his imaginings, to Sam’s perfections, the drawings did at least keep his desire to a manageable simmer which found fruition only in the slick working of his own hands, and muffled cries in the lonely dark of night. He knew concentrating so hard on such pictures kept his mind from despair, whilst his Sam grew from teen into tween, from the coltish beauty which had felled him that day, to sturdy handsomeness. 

The flipbooks prompted him to crystallise his desire into a more mobile form, and on his return home to Bag End, Frodo set about making his own. He soon found it was not as easy as it looked; his first attempts had been as crude, and had shamed him as much, as those at Brandy Hall. So he had ‘got his eye in’ by going back to the very basics, much like those he had known as a child, working his way by degrees and over time, to more complex ones. 

He was rather proud of his walking/trotting pony, for example. It had taken time and much observation, perched by the roadside with blacklead and paper, to get the action right. He had discovered that the secret was to note the movement of each leg in conjunction with its fellow, for if you tried to watch just one, your picture came out completely wrong. He had intended to try to capture a canter, next, but somehow his concentration for so complex an undertaking, for anything other than Sam, was becoming increasingly ragged as his love for Sam grew; and with it his need to know if there were even the slightest chance Sam might return his love, and his fear that Sam could not. 

When Bilbo learned of Frodo’s new hobby, he approved it, saying it kept a lad out of mischief, and at least now he knew it wasn’t mice eating into his supplies of paper so fast. Of course, Frodo was careful to show him only the practice books he made. He did not show any of them to Sam, though he had been used to share everything with Sam; to share them would almost be to share his secret, and he thought neither of them quite ready for that. 

He favoured the realistic style, of course, and made quite several of the little books, in careful and reverent detail. All of them featured himself and Samwise in different activities, from the gentle caring of a first kiss (this one had to be flipped slowly and lovingly), through more active (and less clothed) versions, to the one which had taken most time and patience, lest it resemble the crudities which had set him upon this course. _This_ was the one which had taxed both his imagination in the drawing—he had, after all, neither witnessed nor participated in such endeavour—and his manipulative skills in the viewing, since the fast flickering images set up in him a more urgent use for his right hand. 

Inevitably, he was soon wondering about showing the flip books to Sam. 

It occurred to him, suddenly, that although the habit of command made it seem otherwise, Merry was in fact a good two years younger than Sam, and he was fully conversant with the flipbooks, whether lads and lasses or lads with lads. Merry’s part in the conversations that night had shown Frodo a side of his cousin he had not suspected, and although Merry had always been a precocious brat, surely if he was old enough, then Sam must be. 

But Frodo didn’t give a straw for whatever Merry’s tastes might be. He cared a great deal that Sam should not feel himself pressured into accepting Frodo’s feelings if they embarrassed him—or worse. 

Setting aside any ulterior motivation, he rather suspected Sam might never have seen a flipbook at all—certainly he had neither seen nor heard of such things in Hobbiton, so he assumed they were a Brandy Hall notion. He remembered his own first fascination with running, jumping, tumbling stick-hobbits, before ever this fixation with pictures of himself and Sam, and he wanted to share the wonder at the tiny, animated figures. He would dearly like to be able to share the others—to share the _activities_ , never mind the pictures—but still dreaded the possibility that Sam might be made uncomfortable by the idea, as many of the Brandy hall lads had been, when the flickered books showed two lads together. 

Perhaps he could use the books to give Sam a gentle hint? He could show one which was nicely vague, but open to the interpretation Frodo would wish, should Sam also wish it. And thus the idea of the present situation had been contrived. 

~~~

‘Well, that’s how they are made up, Sam—the work is in the drawing, of course. With my thumb all swaddled up like this, I may not be able to show you how to flip it properly, but you’ll get the idea soon enough. Here, you try.’ 

‘How do I work it, Mr Frodo?’ 

‘Well, you hold it in both hands, like this, and press down with your right thumb, so—’ That was the one Frodo had swathed in a spotted bandage sporting bunny ears—which meant instead of the longed for clasp of his hand over Sam’s, there were layers of cotton to preclude his enjoyment. 

Sam took the little book, holding and flicking as Frodo had shown him. His eyes widened, as the pictures flitted past, and two little hobbits, who bore more than a passing resemblance to himself and Mr Frodo, swung up and down on a seesaw. He riffled through the pages again, more confidently, and a third time. 

‘Well, there’s an eye-opener!’ he said appreciatively. ‘That’s clever, that is—they really look to be moving.’ He turned each page individually, noting the minimal change of position Frodo had drawn on each one, appreciating the time and care that must have gone into the making, then flickered it once more. 

‘That’s quite a simple one, just to show you the idea, and how they are made. I—I have more—more detailed ones, if you’d like…’ Frodo was so nervous, he couldn’t finish the sentence. 

‘I would like, please,’ Sam said, obviously anticipating another such scene of hobbits playing. 

Frodo summoned up all his courage, and took from his pocket the one he really wished to show to Sam. The subject matter was quite innocent—extremely so, when he considered some of the others he had made—but _this_ was what Sam should see first. 

One of the figures was Sam, of course, though Frodo hoped the reason for this was not too obvious; he didn’t want to force Sam’s hand, only to give him a little jolt into awareness, if such there might be. 

They were portrayed in close up, with the second hobbit seen only from behind or from the side, features merely hinted at through tendrils of hair; mysterious, Frodo hoped, and with no real indication of lad or lass. Since this was so important to him, he had borrowed Bilbo’s precious drawing inks, and had painted their tiny selves in careful colour: Sam in earthy tones, with lovingly gilded highlights, himself wearing the exact shade of blue of his eyes. He had exaggerated the length of his own hair a little, to conceal from Sam that his companion wore not a dress but a shirt. 

The flicker would reveal that they were dancing in each other’s arms, whirling closer and closer as the pictures riffled by. And at the end, the Sam dancer kissed the dark-haired dancer; not the extended, passionate, _explorative_ sort of kiss Frodo could have drawn so well, every nuance vivid in his mind, but definitely not a just a friendly peck, either; it was as tender and loving as Frodo could make it. 

He watched nervously as Sam took the little book, and flickered through its pages. Again. And again. 

Well, at least he had not thrown it down and marched out, but nor had he said anything. Frodo bit his lip as Sam flickered it once more. 

Through the open window drifted thin sounds—birdsong, distant voices, the far off thud of an axe, and a scarcely heard rhythm of hooves—the normal, ordinary background to a Shire day. Beneath all hummed a bass murmur of approval from hundreds of bees, for the cotoneaster on the wall outside was in full flower, its tiny blossoms an irresistible lure. In the study, there was only quickened breathing, neither of them hearing much beyond the deafening thump of his own heart. 

Sam didn’t think he could move, could speak. No sense in trying to pretend he didn’t know he was one of the dancers; he wasn’t sure though, who his partner was meant to be, who it was his tiny self had kissed.... He thought he recognised the tumbling curls, and that _was_ the very blue that haunted his dreams. He knew perfectly well who he hoped it was, prayed it was, _believed_ it was—but supposing he were wrong? 

‘Who—’ He swallowed, trying to retrieve a voice from the squeak that threatened to emerge. ‘Who am I dancing with?’ 

‘Whoever you want it to be, Sam. You must choose your own partner.’ Frodo kept his head down, lest his longing show; his words he could control, even his voice. But his face would betray him, he knew, should Samwise choose another. 

Sam felt himself adrift, floating on a sea that might bring him to his dearest want, or to the wreck of all his hopes. _Nothing ventured, nothing gained_ flittered through his disordered mind. He took a deep breath. 

‘I—it looks—it looks like—like you, Mr Frodo.’ 

‘Would you wish it to be me, Sam?’ Frodo whispered. 

‘Yes, please!’ 

‘S-Sam? Are you sure?’ 

‘More than sure, sir.’ 

‘Then—then I should be more than honoured to be your partner, Sam!’ Frodo bowed, as he would at a ball, accepting such invitation, then held out his hand. 

Sam set the little book aside on the desk, and gathered Frodo close, just as the tiny Sam-dancer had held his partner. 

‘Well now,’ said Sam. ‘ _How_ did it go from here?’

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  
22nd September 2004


End file.
